


Under Your Skin

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyswap, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras lifts his head and meets his own gaze in the mirror and his stomach flips again because everything is <i>wrong</i>. It's Grantaire's face looking back at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Skin

Enjolras wakes with the taste of bile in the back of his throat and the sheets plastered to his skin with sweat. He groans and pushes himself upright, but that just makes his head pound and his stomach flip. He scrambles out of bed and across the bedroom, raps his knee against something sharp-edged and doesn't even bother to swear as he stumbles into the bathroom and bends double over the sink, gagging and dry-heaving.

He doesn't remember drinking last night. It's not that he doesn't remember drinking enough to justify this severe a hangover, he doesn't remember drinking at _all_. But his stomach's trying to claw its way up his throat and his skull is threatening to split in two and there are bits of color in the cuticles of his nails where they're curled around the edge of the sink, and the hair that's fallen in his face is too dark, so either he got shitfaced enough to let someone do something extremely ill-advised to him, or-- or--

He lifts his head and meets his own gaze in the mirror and his stomach flips again because everything is _wrong_. It's Grantaire's face looking back at him.

His first thought is that this must be a dream, a terrible dream, and he should just go back to bed and close his eyes and sleep so he can wake up properly. But now that he's focusing on something other than the nausea, he realizes that he's at Grantaire's sink, not his own, and it was Grantaire's bed he jolted out of, and there's no way he's going to be able to get back to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, not now that he's aware of the smell of Grantaire's conditioner clinging to his pillow or all the clutter pushing at the edges of his awareness.

Besides, isn't there some sort of aphorism about how you can't feel pain in dreams? Enjolras is in enough agony that he thinks he can't be anything but awake, no matter how incomprehensible this is.

There's nothing to do but to storm down the hall to his own room. He's not sure what he expects when he throws open the door, but it's not to see himself standing naked and leaning against Enjolras's mirror, staring his reflection in the eye as his hands strips over his cock with a desperate pace.

" _Grantaire_ ," Enjolras hisses, and he spins around.

The shocking thing isn't that Grantaire's eyes flies wide as he mutters, "Oh fuck," and comes in his fist. That's not much more than he expects from Grantaire, but it's his own reaction that Enjolras is surprised by. The bolt of heat that goes through him, the way he can't get over the fact that it's _his_ body, but it's undeniably Grantaire staring out of those eyes. The uneven lift to his brow, the way his lips part on a gasp and then press together -- all of it is one hundred percent Grantaire, and seeing it on Enjolras's face is disorienting and baffling and makes the desire curling through Enjolras's stomach all the more confusing.

Enjolras slams the door shut behind himself and crosses his arms. "What did you do?"

Grantaire drops onto the edge of Enjolras's bed and drags the blankets over his lap, like there's any point in shielding Enjolras's body from his own sight. "Enjolras, look—"

"Why are we like this? Change it back!"

Grantaire looks relieved for an instant, but it gives way swiftly to anger. "What makes you think this is my fault?"

The shouting makes Enjolras's head throb. He presses a palm to his brow, but that only reinforces the reminder that this is not his body, not his head, not his hands. " _You_ were drinking last night," he snarls, "not me. If either of us were going to do something stupid that—"

Grantaire seems to really look at him for the first time, and his brows lower. He looks fearsome, and Enjolras wonders if he's truly that angry, or if it's his own features lending undue weight to Grantaire's expression. "What are you talking about? I didn't drink any more than I usually do last night."

"The hangover I'm suffering right now is telling me otherwise."

Grantaire pulls himself back and looks startled, then scowls. "Christ," he mutters. "You self-righteous dick. That's not a hangover." He slides off the bed, dragging Enjolras's blanket with him, and stalks out of the room with it dragging behind him like a train. Enjolras follows, and bristles when Grantaire grabs a bottle of Jack from under the counter. He doesn't drink it, though, just smacks it down on the counter right in front of Enjolras. "That's _withdrawal_. Welcome to the joys of physical dependence, asshole. Drink up, or you're going to be no good to either of us."

Enjolras drew himself up to the full of his height, though it was less imposing than he might have hoped for with only Grantaire's shorter stature to back it up. "I will not."

"We don't have time for you to stand on a point of principle right now. We're supposed to meet everyone at the Musain this morning, remember?" Enjolras feels the blood drain out of his face. Grantaire must see it, too, because he gives a brisk nod and changes the subject entirely. "They can't know. Not until we have a chance to figure this out."

"Obviously." It's all Enjolras can do not to roll his eyes like a child. He figures that's Grantaire's influence on him.

Grantaire arches a single brow at him, and that's its own kind of infuriating, because Enjolras _can't_ , had long ago given it up as a quirk of genetics that made it a physical impossibility, like being double-jointed or rolling your tongue. "Think you'll be able to sit in the back and drink and look bored all night while someone else runs your meeting?"

Enjolras doesn't dignify that with a response, though perhaps the question is valid. "Think you'll be able to stand up in front of everyone and convincingly care about something for a change?"

Grantaire's smile turns sharp around the edges, and even on Enjolras's face it's so _Grantaire_ that it hurts. "I've had a lot of time to study, Apollo." The nickname sounds strange and wrong coming from a voice that isn't Grantaire's. "I could pass for you blindfolded and with one hand tied behind my back."

There's nothing to do after that but to nod and separate to their own — to _each other's_ — rooms and throw clothes on as quickly as their able. Enjolras combs through Grantaire's closet, and the pile of presumably clean clothes on the floor, looking for something that seems to suit Grantaire's style but that won't set Enjolras's teeth on edge to have to wear all day. But the whole while he's flicking through hanger after hanger, the only sight before him is one conjured by his mind, of Grantaire's face gone wide and surprised as he spent himself in his hand.

They've got bigger problems to deal with right now, but as soon as they get this sorted out, Enjolras thinks that he's going to have to make Grantaire show him what he looks like when he comes inside his own skin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Under Your Skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047635) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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